


Elision

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-15
Updated: 2007-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have a meal, and Sam is basically full of feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elision

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2007

Sam can't remember not wanting something. Everything in his life is neatly lined up against the driving wall of desire in his head, lists and numbers and meticulous diagrams, maybe unscrambling a little in whorls and salt tipped spirals when it comes to his family. Mostly, he's always gotten what he's reached for; the problem is in excess.

When he'd been twelve and clumsy, furiously falling behind at the worst moments, always looking to his father, growling and poised, and Dean, light as a cat on his feet, as if on smirking, studied purpose, when he'd hated them (and most everything else), he wanted to be tall (taller than them both), and thin, so his cheeks wouldn't scream to be prodded by every other matronly woman on the street. Then he'd gotten just gotten taller and taller like he'd never stop, the butt of every good natured joke John's friends could think of when they'd all stumble together, shoulders bumping, weapons scraping, over bitter coffee and recent stories, every joint aching so much at night he'd swallow all the salt in his pillow by morning and only vaguely remember Dean's cuss filled platitudes from hours before. Years later, more assured, eyes wide open, he'd wanted normal, away, else, and gotten everything, sated to the point of loneliness, maybe a little regret. Once (always), he wanted Dean to take him seriously, really look at him, love him outside the absolute of blood and responsibility.

He's learned since to hunch in on himself, rein in everything he's wished and made of his body over the years. Sam knows that girls expect him to be gentler in bed than he actually is, but it's not easy, trying to unlearn strength and read every muscle. It takes Jess to smooth out his skipping verse, curb him a little, but he still goes for everything thoughtlessly, artlessly, all the concentration he pours into the rest of his life an afterthought when he needs, wants, takes.

It's no different with Dean, who scoffs and makes faces when Sam follows him into the shower, a shabby motel affair with a square, humble tub and a spray that barely tops Sam's mouth. So he bends, mouthing at Dean's freckled ear, tasting salt and the strange tang of the local tap water. He sinks because it's easy to do, hands dragging over his brother's arms, the out curved flutter of his ribs until he wrests the right gasp, the right bitten swear from a damp mouth, tempting when he looks up at it, framed by the spiky, water beaded lashes at this angle. Skin and water are warm both, smooth slide until the stop start catch and following sound, deep, as if straight from his brother's middle, not even his throat.

Dean is already red and bobbing against his belly, so Sam skitters his fingers down hard flesh, tracing veins and jumping heat, until he casually cups the heavy, crinkled weight of Dean's balls in his hand, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Dean almost slips on the tile when he sucks just the tip into his mouth, only his white knuckled grip on the edge of the tile saving them. Iterations of _God, Jesus_ , his name dragged out into slippery, choked vowels filter down to him. Sam feels ridiculous, turned on, out of control, lukewarm water sluicing over the insistent heat of his own erection, which he ignores for now. They're almost spilling out of the tub, the spray so hesitant above them, but he gamely guides the rest of it in, fingers slipping their hold so his mouth can taste every curve, every shudder that goes through Dean, pressed against the dirty tile. 

Jess had always loved the water, just like this, Sam spreading her thighs open with his hands, fingers sinking eagerly into the softer flesh there, tasting how rich she was even diluted with water, feeling her flutter around his tongue, his lips, catching muscle. He coughs, pulls back a little when Dean comes, his eyes squeezed shut, against the water, against Sam.

They order in. Pizza. Sprawl on the bed with the journal, clippings and research notes scattered around them like extra bed dressing. It feels bizarrely normal, like everything has come to be, casually slurring Sam's usual neat dichotomy of what he wants, wanted.

The pizza's as hot, as heavy, as it ever was when he'd been in an entirely different place; Dean could almost, almost pass for just another college kid in his jeans and Henley, only the little tics in his face (and maybe only Sam knows those) giving him way, a slipping dissonance, welcome.

The bed doesn't fit the two of them any better than the shower did, but Dean lets Sam run a hand across the cut of his hip, the side of his jeans, until they're tangled together, Dean half in Sam's lap, one hand on his knee to steady himself, the other buried in Sam's hair. His legs run clean off the side of the mattress, but he doesn't seem to care, tongue slipping between lips and teeth, slick, skittish just when it counts. Sometimes, Sam is reminded that kissing is awkward with Dean, both of them pausing at different points along, tasting spit and incipient silence; then the eager tide will break, and it'll be back to the curling heat of unexpected nips, chaste presses and kissing that's really fucking, jaws brushing to accommodate smearing, fierce strokes, Dean's mouth hot, open, the potential of it thrown open in frustration with his legs spread sweaty-right, or moving obscenely between Sam's own, all those curses straight into the entrance of his body.

When Sam sneaks his own hand to the bulge in Dean's pants, fingers worming their way around each eyelet, each cold metal touch of the button fly, his brother only smiles against his mouth, pepperoni and no sleep.

No desperate heat, no holding back, no frustrating, shapeless want so strong it burned through limbs and age and old obedience. Sam could be anywhere, but he's not, only here, lazy, easy, right, nothing against his back if he falls.

 

*


End file.
